to sounds: a crackling fire, a pan busy on its chain, an old woman’s night-time shuffle. He watched her cook but he didn’t move. The pot looked heavy and once he thought she might drop it on to the iron rest, but he didn’t move. He watched her ladle out the stew. Fucking stew again. She came towards him, a bowl of fragrant steam cradled in her knotty hands.
Here, she said, and took a spoon out from her jacket pocket. She sat on the stool next to his bed. You look better, she said.
He nodded and continued to eat. And you? he said, between mouthfuls.
Me? she said.
Yes.
I’m well.
Where am I? asked Drake.
In the boathouse.
What boathouse?
My boathouse.
And who are you? he said.
I’m no one, she said, quietly: a voice more breeze than voice.
What’s your name? he said, and she told him.
Marvellous what? he asked.
Ways.
Drake spooned a large dollop of stew into his mouth. That’s quite unusual, he said.
Apparently, she said.
I once knew someone called Banjo.
And could he play?
Not really, said Drake.
That’s even more unusual, said Marvellous.
That’s what I thought.
And he carried on eating and they fell back into a shared silence.
My name’s Francis Drake. People usually call me Drake.
Fancy that, said Marvellous.
I’ve heard the jokes.
What jokes? said Marvellous.
That I’ve never gone far and I hate water.
I don’t think that’s very funny, I think that’s a pity, quite frankly, said Marvellous. You know, it’s a dying art, naming well. My father gave me my name. He travelled far, and he travelled to places where names mattered and he brought my name back from across the sea and put my name in this shell box together with my calling.
And she lifted a small box away from her chest for him to see. Here, she said. It was my mother’s. My mother was a mermaid.
Drake stopped eating. Oh Jesus, here we go, he thought, his ears suddenly alive to the wind outside hurling the rain against the smooth slats. He rested the empty bowl on his lap. He was deliberate with his actions, anything so as not to look at the old girl’s face. He reached for his cigarettes and lighter, he blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, aware that the old woman’s eyes were locked on to his. A mermaid, eh? he eventually said.
Yes, said Marvellous. Apparently she was so beautiful that even waves drew back to look at her, and Marvellous got up and took his bowl back to the hearth.
I don’t think I’ve ever met a mermaid before, said Drake.
How would you know? They don’t advertise, said Marvellous.
What else do they do? he said.
Who?
Mermaids.
What do you mean what do they do? They swim .
Don’t they sing and comb their hair?
I think you’ll find they’re rather more accomplished than that.
That’s what the books say, isn’t it?
Rumour.
Luring sailors to their deaths?
Rumour , said Marvellous a little more emphatically, and she filled two mugs with warm rum and ale and shuffled back to the bed.
Here, she said.
Drake took the mug and drank gratefully. Where do you live? he asked.
In the caravan. Out there.
Drake craned his neck towards the window. It was a tarry tarry night.
You won’t see it, said Marvellous. It’s too dark for your eyes. You’ve still got city eyes.
Drake fell back against the pillows. He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked ash into a scallop shell the old woman had left for that use. Did your mother come from round here? he asked.
No, no, no. She lived off the coast of Lady Island in South Carolina. America , she said with emphasis. My father went to a house one night for a ball, and she was standing in a nearby street surrounded by men. He said it was as if she punctured his skin and entered his veins and swam directly to his heart. I don’t think he got out much.
Marvellous lifted her mug and steam rose and misted her glasses.
Did they stay there? asked Drake.
No. My father brought her back to London where he thought differences could be hidden.
Here, she said, and took a spoon out from her jacket pocket. She sat on the stool next to his bed. You look better, she said.
He nodded and continued to eat. And you? he said, between mouthfuls.
Me? she said.
Yes.
I’m well.
Where am I? asked Drake.
In the boathouse.
What boathouse?
My boathouse.
And who are you? he said.
I’m no one, she said, quietly: a voice more breeze than voice.
What’s your name? he said, and she told him.
Marvellous what? he asked.
Ways.
Drake spooned a large dollop of stew into his mouth. That’s quite unusual, he said.
Apparently, she said.
I once knew someone called Banjo.
And could he play?
Not really, said Drake.
That’s even more unusual, said Marvellous.
That’s what I thought.
And he carried on eating and they fell back into a shared silence.
My name’s Francis Drake. People usually call me Drake.
Fancy that, said Marvellous.
I’ve heard the jokes.
What jokes? said Marvellous.
That I’ve never gone far and I hate water.
I don’t think that’s very funny, I think that’s a pity, quite frankly, said Marvellous. You know, it’s a dying art, naming well. My father gave me my name. He travelled far, and he travelled to places where names mattered and he brought my name back from across the sea and put my name in this shell box together with my calling.
And she lifted a small box away from her chest for him to see. Here, she said. It was my mother’s. My mother was a mermaid.
Drake stopped eating. Oh Jesus, here we go, he thought, his ears suddenly alive to the wind outside hurling the rain against the smooth slats. He rested the empty bowl on his lap. He was deliberate with his actions, anything so as not to look at the old girl’s face. He reached for his cigarettes and lighter, he blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, aware that the old woman’s eyes were locked on to his. A mermaid, eh? he eventually said.
Yes, said Marvellous. Apparently she was so beautiful that even waves drew back to look at her, and Marvellous got up and took his bowl back to the hearth.
I don’t think I’ve ever met a mermaid before, said Drake.
How would you know? They don’t advertise, said Marvellous.
What else do they do? he said.
Who?
Mermaids.
What do you mean what do they do? They swim .
Don’t they sing and comb their hair?
I think you’ll find they’re rather more accomplished than that.
That’s what the books say, isn’t it?
Rumour.
Luring sailors to their deaths?
Rumour , said Marvellous a little more emphatically, and she filled two mugs with warm rum and ale and shuffled back to the bed.
Here, she said.
Drake took the mug and drank gratefully. Where do you live? he asked.
In the caravan. Out there.
Drake craned his neck towards the window. It was a tarry tarry night.
You won’t see it, said Marvellous. It’s too dark for your eyes. You’ve still got city eyes.
Drake fell back against the pillows. He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked ash into a scallop shell the old woman had left for that use. Did your mother come from round here? he asked.
No, no, no. She lived off the coast of Lady Island in South Carolina. America , she said with emphasis. My father went to a house one night for a ball, and she was standing in a nearby street surrounded by men. He said it was as if she punctured his skin and entered his veins and swam directly to his heart. I don’t think he got out much.
Marvellous lifted her mug and steam rose and misted her glasses.
Did they stay there? asked Drake.
No. My father brought her back to London where he thought differences could be hidden.
Similar Books
